


All Over

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 19:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: Michael may be gone, but the archangel is still all Dean can see when he looks in the mirror. She tries to change his perspective.





	All Over

Swimming into consciousness, she notes the vast absence beside her.

When Dean returned to the Bunker sans Michael, she hated the idea of him struggling through the night alone. She’s no miracle worker, but sharing a mattress--sometimes his, sometimes hers--seems to have helped him a little. He’s able to slumber for a couple of nightmare-free hours, at least. Sadly, both of them consider that a win.

The clock on her desk informs her the sun isn’t up yet. So, what is _he_ doing up?

She rolls over and slips her hand underneath Dean’s pillow. The warmth that greets her proves he hasn’t been gone long. 

At the sound of footsteps in the hallway, she retreats to her side of the mattress, giving him plenty of space to slide in under the sheets. She fakes being asleep so he doesn’t feel guilty for waking her.

Listening intently, she’s aware that Dean enters the room, but he doesn’t come back to bed. Near her closet, she hears him sigh. Puzzled, she lifts her ’lids just enough to see him. Still in his pajamas--a gray t-shirt and boxer briefs--he’s consumed with his reflection in her floor-length mirror. Running fingers through his hair, he tousles the short locks into various styles. He smooths his shirt against his chest and stomach before yanking at the fabric to loosen its grip on his toned physique. 

Her confusion molds into concern. Cautiously, she rises and strides over to him. She silently claims his hand. Surprisingly, he doesn’t get defensive or cavalier about the actions it’s clear she’s witnessed. But he also doesn’t look at her. 

Speaking to his bare feet, he explains, “All I can see is _him_.”

To feel your own body no longer belongs to you--she can’t imagine the horror. But she’d be willing to, if it meant _he_ didn’t have to experience it. Gazing into the glass, she softly reminds his reflection, “He’s _gone_.”

With a grimace, Dean wonders, “ _Is_ he?” He pauses. “Last week--that hex case?”

She nods, remembering.

“While you and Cass were scouting that dude’s house, I told Sam I thought of a lead and wanted to check it out. That he should head to the morgue alone.” Dean exhales sharply. “I had nothin’. I just…” His voice weakens. “I couldn’t put on _a_ _suit_.”

Desperate to break the trance the mirror’s got him in, she steps between Dean and the lens of lies. She takes his face in her hands. Her thumbs trace the sharp outlines of his cheekbones. He swallows. 

She aims her message directly into those emeralds he calls eyes. “You, Dean Winchester, are all that _I_ see.” A hazy thought about how he’s all that she’s seen for a long time develops in her preoccupied mind, but she lets it float away like passing smoke.

Oncoming tears glimmer on Dean’s lavish lash line. The pain his expression wears proves he remains unconvinced.

Her hold on him slides to the back of his head. Her fingers play in his hair. She catches the smallest suggestion of his body relaxing and, with it, has no other choice but to continue.

At a measured pace, she leans into Dean and pushes nearly-weightless lips against his jaw. Pulling back, she captures the aftermath. _His_ lips are slightly parted, bewilderment beaming from him in a way that makes it impossible for her _not_ to smile.

She sobers quickly, far from finished with her quest. She steps forward, eliminating more of the already-scant space separating her and her hero.

This time, her chaste kiss lands just below his ear. 

Next, the pulse point of his neck.

Then, the hollow of his throat. 

Dean’s quickened breathing mingles with her hair.

Lips lingering, she runs her hands down his arms and allows them to stop at his hips.

She sneaks her thumbs underneath the hem of his shirt. Glancing into his dazed eyes, she seeks permission. “May I?”

His tongue peeks out, seemingly trying to moisten his mouth enough to speak. “Y-yes.”

She lifts his tee, and he reaches upward to assist her mission. She tosses it across the room, onto a chair. 

In front of her is a sight that would make the Greek gods jealous. But the manner in which he stands--defeated and timorous--is an unbearable tragedy.

With a gentle grip on his Herculean shoulders, she proclaims, “You… are… exquisite.” 

Dean releases something between a scoff and a sob.

Her lips ghost over his collarbone. Hot breath insists, “It’s the truth.” And she seals it with a kiss to his warm skin.

Her mouth explores his chest, pressing encouragement onto every surface.

Each of his pecs.

The outline of his tattoo.

His sternum.

His onslaught of goosebumps spurs her on.

She selects his left shoulder first, and begins moving down the length of his arm.

His bicep.

The crook of his elbow.

Forearm.

Wrist.

Knuckles.

She then gives the same attention to his right.

He’s trembling by the time she’s done.

Her hands around his waist to steady herself, she kneels in front of him.

“Wh--” he attempts. 

She answers by pecking the top of his ribs on his left side.

She travels south along the collection of bones, and then shifts to the other set.

She devours the planes of his stomach. His entire body flinches as her lower lip meshes with his navel. 

He reaches for her, his hand brushing the back of her neck. But he’s unable to ground himself for more than a second because she _doesn’t stop_.

With precision, she places the smallest of pecks on each of his hip bones. He lets out a ragged breath.

As she sits on her heels in preparation for better access, she notices he’s starting to strain against the fabric before her.

He appears to misjudge her pause as offense because he offers her a shy, “Sorry.”

She shakes her head--dismissing the need for an apology. 

Her hands cascade over the curve of his rear and secure themselves to his hamstrings.

Below the bottom seams of his underwear, her lips relish every pronounced freckle on his thighs. One in particular draws a strangled curse from him.

She bends her spine so that she’s closer to the floor. Her kisses resume on his knees--both of which buckle briefly.

She follows the path of his shinbones.

Then, attends to his ankles.

Lastly, celebrates the arches of his feet.

As soon as she finishes, she stands so that she is eye-level with him again.

His face is flushed, complete with a couple of subtle tear trails down his cheeks. He’s breathing as if he just ran a marathon. He croaks out her name in pure bafflement. 

She grasps his hands in hers. “Every inch, _every single part_ is a masterpiece--and so wholly _you_.”

Dean sniffles as she pulls him into the tightest hug she can manage. 

“Feel this?” she whispers.

He nods, his stubble scratching at her temple.

“Good,” she murmurs. Not letting go, she assures him, “Right here, right now--it’s just _you_ and _me_." 


End file.
